Lady Lucy raised her chin and turned her lips in a satisfied smirk. She laid her hand on Marshall’s forearm.
Isabelle’s first impulse was to swat those bejeweled fingers off his arm. It was no surprise Naomi deplored a potential union between her brother and the calculating Lucy Jamison. The woman seemed cold. Yet, no one could deny she also possessed every quality Marshall’s wife should have. She came from a noble family, if one of only middling fortune and influence; it was still far greater status than the Fairfaxes could claim. Lucy had been groomed from girlhood to marry high. The duties of a society hostess would come easily to her. Marshall deserved a duchess from his world, one who wouldn’t be a constant source of embarrassment. So, while Isabelle sympathized with Naomi’s plight, she could see no way to justifiably interfere.
Besides, she thought glumly, she was here to convince Lord Woolsley to offer for her, not to pine after her former husband.
“Ah.” Marshall gestured to a man passing by. “Herr Kaufman, a moment. He will be playing for us tonight,” Marshall explained. “We’re most fortunate he’s agreed to join us.”
The man inclined his head to acknowledge the compliment. “I am always delighted to share the work of my compatriot.” His English was quite good, but carried a heavy German accent.
“Who is your compatriot, sir?” Alexander asked.
Kaufman spread his hands. “Herr Beethoven, of course.”
A cool hand touched Isabelle’s elbow. She turned to see Viscount Woolsley just behind her. She hadn’t noticed his approach at all; her senses had been tuned to Marshall.
“What selection will you play, sir?” Woolsley asked. His pale eyes found Isabelle’s, and a faint smile touched his lips.
She smiled brightly in return, clamping down on the panic rising in her middle.
The pianist warmed to his subject, and his face became more animated as he spoke. “The twenty-sixth sonata for pianoforte, Les Adieux. It is a newer piece, published but two years ago.”
“I’ve not heard it.” Isabelle remarked as she surreptitiously pulled her arm out of Woolsley’s grasp. “I look forward to your performance.”
She glanced at Marshall. He stood stock still with Lady Lucy’s fingers curving over his arm, but he maintained a polite distance between them. Though his face was schooled into a placid expression, the unrest in his eyes was palpable.
Isabelle hid her frown as she contemplated that look. What could one of the most powerful men in England have to be displeased about? He had a beautiful woman on his arm, the crème of society in his home, and his botanical studies to occupy his mind. With everything a man could possibly want, why did he look as though someone was twisting a knife in his gut?
With a gentle tug at her elbow, Lord Woolsley drew her away. She lifted her chin and told herself not to pity Marshall Lockwood. He didn’t need it.
Soon, the assembled guests found their seats. Marshall sat in the front row, with Lady Lucy on his left. Isabelle sat several rows back with her brother and Woolsley. A hush fell over the audience as Herr Kaufman lowered himself to the plush bench at his instrument. He raised his hands; his fingers hovered a breath’s width above the ivory keys. As the movement progressed, Herr Kaufman persuaded his instrument to convey sounds of pained longing and guarded happiness through passages that were by turn heart wrenching and exhilarating.
Her eyes settled on Marshall’s back. Lady Lucy leaned against him to whisper in his ear. Isabelle’s chest tightened at the intimate gesture. But then — hope! Marshall waved her away like an annoying fly, just as the movement ended with two strong chords. Isabelle exhaled a sigh of relief.
The second movement was more poignant even than the first. Discordant notes interjected throughout the sweeter passages struck to the very core of her own rather precarious situation. No matter how she tried to arrange her life in a semblance of ordered civility, she was tripped by new, unhappy hurdles: her divorce, her exile in the cottage, her impending marriage to a man she did not love. It was as though Herr Kaufman — and Beethoven before him — put her woes to music for all the world to hear.
At the end of the frenzied third movement, less than twenty minutes after his fingers first touched the keys, Herr Kaufman stood to receive his applause. Isabelle joined with the rest of Marshall’s guests in enthusiastic appreciation of the man’s virtuosity.
The guests began to migrate into other rooms for refreshments and cards. She startled at the cool breath that ghosted over the back of her neck.
“You’re pale, my dear,” Woolsley’s brow creased in concern. Maybe being married to him wouldn’t be so bad after all, she thought dejectedly.
“I’m all right.” Isabelle waved a dismissive hand. “Just a touch lightheaded. It’s quite warm.”
Woolsley led her through the French doors at the back of the room and out onto the balcony. Still dazed from the overwhelming musical experience, Isabelle accompanied him to the far end, beyond the light spilling from the music room. The air outside was only marginally cooler than inside, but at least a faint breeze stirred the tepid atmosphere.
They stood in silence for a short time. Isabelle’s mind replayed bits of the music over and over. “It was a lovely performance, don’t you think, my lord?”
“Nyle,” he replied.
She furrowed her brow. “What does the sonata have to do with Egypt?”
“My given name is Nyle.”
The next instant his hands were on her waist and he was pulling her close. Isabelle’s heart beat against her ribs like a bird trying to escape its cage.
“May I call you Isabelle, Duchess?”
She detected a mocking note in his voice, but nodded and made a sound of agreement. He pressed cool lips to her cheek then grazed her jaw. She closed her eyes and tipped her head back to accept his kiss.
The mechanics of the kiss were similar to those she’d shared with Marshall. But it felt completely different. There was no warmth in her blood at Woolsley’s touch, no fire in her belly — only a cold fist slowly closing around her heart.
When he broke away from their embrace, however, Lord Woolsley — Nyle, she reminded herself — gave a lazy grin. He traced her collarbone with a gloved finger. “You’re exceedingly lovely, Isabelle.”
“Thank you. Nyle,” she added.
“We suit admirably,” he said in a low voice, while his hand slid down to splay across her bottom.
She nodded quickly. “Oh, yes. Admirably.”
He cupped her face with his free hand and bent to kiss her neck.
This time, she could not contain the shudder that coursed up her spine. Could she really endure his touch for the rest of her days? It was unthinkable. She suddenly envisioned herself with chronic headaches springing up just after dinner every night until she died. Or he died. Or they both died of fatal unhappiness.
“A shiver of delight?” His voice grated against her throat. “It pleases me to see you so affected.” He straightened and fixed his concentrated gaze on her. “I believe there is something we should discuss.”
This was it. She drew her shoulders back, steeling herself to accept his proposal.
Woolsley, however, resumed his onslaught of caresses. His pelvis rocked provocatively against her hip.
His touch made her skin crawl. “If you wish to talk, Nyle,” she said, “perhaps you should release me. It’s difficult to attend your words with you behaving so … “ She would have liked to say “abominably,” but bit her tongue just before offending her would-be fiancé.
“Passionately, darling?” He kneaded his fingers into the back of her neck. “I’m having trouble concentrating, too. You heat my blood.”
She had trouble believing that. The glints of moonlight reflecting on his eyes looked like ice.
“I am most gratified to know you feel the same.” His teet
h nipped painfully into her neck.
Isabelle gasped. She disengaged herself from his arms and took a couple steps back. “Talk, my lord, you wanted to talk.”
Behind Isabelle, someone on the other side of the balcony coughed loudly. She turned her head at the sound, but her attention immediately returned to the viscount when he snatched her hands.
Lord Woolsley chuckled. “I see I’ve alarmed you, m’dear. Or are you feigning modesty?” He squeezed her hands a little too firmly to be reassuring. “Let us be frank. You’re an experienced woman. Monthwaite undoubtedly taught you well.”
Heat rose in her cheeks. She was glad for the shadows concealing her discomfiture. Though her familiarity with the matter was limited, this was the strangest prelude to a marriage proposal Isabelle had ever heard of. “I confess I find myself at a loss for words, sir. Nyle.”
“It’s not Sir Nyle.” He furrowed his brow and pressed his middle finger to his forehead. “My point is,” his voice once again clipped and precise, “you, my love, are no fresh virgin on the marriage mart. Neither are you a widow with a fortune to attract a new husband.”
Her tongue recoiled from the metallic taste of mortification. She swallowed hard and spoke through tight lips. “That does seem to be the situation in which I find myself.”
“However,” he said in a gentler tone, “you’re a beautiful female. T’would be a crime to let your youth pass by unappreciated.” He raised her fingers to his mouth and kissed the tip of each, then pressed her hands against his chest, pinning them beneath his own. “Isabelle.” He spoke her name gravely; his eyes bored into her like twin ice picks.
She drew a breath and held it.
“I would like to offer you my protection.”
His protection? She continued holding her breath. Wasn’t there supposed to be more to a proposal? Making him the happiest of men, doing him the honor, he’d talk to her brother as soon as possible? But the viscount stood there impassively, seemingly at the end of his speech. She exhaled.
“Your protection?” She frowned in confusion. “What do you mean, your pro — “ As the words left her lips, his meaning hit her like a bolt of lightning. She gasped; her hand flew to her gaping mouth. Isabelle staggered back, the full import of his suggestion settling upon her. “I cannot believe this,” she finally stammered.
“Believe it, darling.” Lord Woolsley stalked toward her. “There will be a house for you to live in while our arrangement holds. A generous quarterly allowance. An outpouring of gifts if you please me.” The moonlight gleamed against his wolfish grin. “All I ask of you is an open door and a warm bed.”
For a fraction of a moment, Isabelle’s shocked mind desperately wondered whether Alex would want her to accept Woolsley’s offer. He wanted her off his hands, but never this way.
“My lord!” She drew herself up, shaking off the shock with a toss of her head. “You misunderstand me. I am overcome with disbelief, but not in the way you think. I will not be your mistress.” She lifted her chin. “I’m a divorced woman, not a whore.”
Lord Woolsley breathed a laugh. “There’s not much difference, my dear. Think it over. When you come to your senses, let me know.”
His words were delivered with such cool, indifferent disdain; they poured over her like icy water. He reached inside his coat and withdrew a cigar case, selected one, and returned the case to his inner pocket. Viscount Woolsley lit his cigar, took a few puffs, then kissed her hand and walked away.
She didn’t turn to watch him go. She couldn’t move. She felt rooted to the very spot on which she stood, the location of her lowest humiliation to date. Isabelle had endured many things the last several years, but never had anyone vocalized such a low estimation of her morality to her face.
She stared blankly at the balustrade, wondering what on earth she was going to tell Alex.
The sound of shouting snapped her out of her reverie. A woman screamed. She took a few steps and rounded the corner of the house. The sight that greeted her was like another icy dunk.
Viscount Woolsley was flat on his back on the balcony. Marshall knelt over him, delivering blow after punishing blow and shouting obscenities. Lord Woolsley attempted to fend off Marshall’s fists, but the larger man had the advantage and it was clear Woolsley might not be conscious much longer. A group of ladies stood a short distance behind, ogling the scene in wide-eyed interest. A crowd was quickly gathering at the French doors.
“Marshall, stop!” Isabelle cried, lifting her skirts and sprinting to the site of the brawl. Grabbing his arm proved to be as effective as swatting at a rolling boulder. She rounded to his left side, where that hand was holding the hapless viscount against the stone. Woolsley’s cigar smoldered a couple feet away; its earthy-sweet smoke reached diaphanous fingers into the air. Isabelle knelt beside the raging man, and laid a trembling hand on his shoulder.
“Marshall,” she pleaded, “please stop.”
Amazingly, he paused with his fist drawn back by his ear. He turned to look at her, his eyes wild with fury. “I heard him.” Marshall’s jaw jutted out defensively. “I heard what he said.” He drew a ragged breath. “He can’t say that about you. I won’t allow it!”
With a sneer of disgust, he looked down at Lord Woolsley. “You hear that, you miserable bit of excrement?” His voice went frighteningly quiet. “You will not speak that way ever again, even if I have to rip the tongue out of your skull to make sure of it.” For a final time, his fist connected with Woolsley’s nose with a sickening crunch of bone and cartilage.
Woolsley groaned as blood oozed from his nostrils. Then his pale eyes rolled back in his head an instant before his eyelids fell closed.
Isabelle blanched at the sight of the man’s pummeled face, already swelling and bruising in places. Marshall sat down heavily on his defeated opponent and turned to her, his face contorted with wrath. Instinctively, she fell on her bottom and scooted backward, putting distance between herself and that solid mass of unrestrained vengeance. When her back touched the brick wall, she drew her knees against her chest.
Marshall rose and stalked toward her; the heels of his impeccably polished boots tapped softly against the flagstones. Without a word, he reached out. Isabelle eyed his hand warily before tentatively placing her own upon it. He pulled her to her feet and searched her face. His temper was cooling, she was relieved to see. The lines creasing his brow softened, although the set of his jaw remained firm.
“Come with me.” The steely edge to his voice brooked no argument. Isabelle nodded once, still mute with shock.
His eyes flicked to the door and leveled a hard gaze on the assembled onlookers. “Out,” Marshall growled. The group drew back and cast nervous glances at one another. “Out!” he yelled. Several dozen aristocrats scattered like a flock of pigeons to summon their servants and carriages.
A liveried footman stood just inside the music room with a tray of champagne, doing a passable imitation of statuary. Marshall called him and nudged the unconscious viscount with his foot. “See Lord Woolsley to his carriage.” The servant hopped to action, setting the tray of drinks on a stand before scurrying off.
With his hand still clamped around hers, Marshall led her back into the house. Isabelle’s frayed nerves wreaked havoc on her stomach while she wondered what he intended.
They plowed through the crowd of evicted guests loitering in the entrance hall. Tonnish men and women tripped over themselves to move out of his way. Isabelle found herself on the receiving end of openly speculative stares. She grimaced and kept her eyes downcast. As they passed, murmurs sprang up in their wake. Undoubtedly, this spectacularly ruined evening would be all the talk for the foreseeable future.
Alexander fell into step on Isabelle’s other side. “Monthwaite,” he said in a low voice, “what the devil — ”
Marshall cut him off. “Not now.” They came upon C
aro, Grant, and Naomi; Marshall gathered them up with a jerk of his chin. The youngest Lockwood sibling turned her startled eyes on Isabelle and raised her brows. Isabelle shook her head — she had no better idea than Naomi what was happening. Caro paused to whisper at Lady Lucy before joining them. Lucy shot a murderous glare at Isabelle.
The group moved away from the crowd of guests and their baffled clamor. Marshall halted at the library and opened the door. “Inside, please.”
Isabelle searched his face, but found no clues in his features, once again perfectly composed and unreadable. Only a tightness at the corners of his eyes betrayed any emotion whatsoever. With a deep breath and a sense of impending unpleasantness, she filed into the library with the others.
Chapter Fourteen
Marshall poured himself a brandy from the decanter in the library. He took a sip of the amber liquor, savoring the clean burn as it went down. He drew a deep breath and exhaled slowly.
He hadn’t gotten into a brawl since he and Grant were in the schoolroom at Helmsdale Hall. It wasn’t a brawl, he reminded himself. He’d attacked Woolsley, who never saw it coming — and Marshall had relished every moment of it, much to his chagrin.
But he deserved it. It had been bad enough to stand just around the corner from them, knowing another man was touching Isabelle, kissing her. Marshall felt himself getting irate again when he thought about how, after pressing his affections upon her, Woolsley had debased Isabelle with his tawdry offer. He flexed his right hand and winced at the throbbing pain in his knuckles.
One thing that crystallized in his mind with absolute certainty was that his life had been irrevocably changed out there on the balcony. Doubts and hesitations, the things he’d tried to convince himself he wanted, had all been swept away in that terrible moment.
He took another fortifying swallow of his drink. Then he turned around.
Five faces registering varying degrees of shock watched him.
Isabelle sat between her brother and Naomi on the sofa. Her beautiful green eyes were wide, and she looked ready to bolt for the door. Tight bands constricted around Marshall’s chest when he saw her alarm. He wanted to toss the rest of them out on their collective ear, carry Isabelle to bed, and begin making up for lost time.
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